


like a waterfall, you carry me away

by kohee



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mature Situations, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kohee/pseuds/kohee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something that was once easy has become so difficult. Barba and Liv doesn't know where they stand with each other anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a waterfall, you carry me away

**Author's Note:**

> one-shot; _like a waterfall you carry me away_  
>  pairing: rafael barba/olivia benson  
> word count: 4364 words  
> note: a prompt from anonymous at my tumblr, requesting for angsty Barson. Title taken from Matoma’s Running Out. More notes at the end, but I apologise for the bad porn right off the bat.

Barba likes to think that things have not changed. Liv was never excluded as squad commander of SVU – no matter how short that period was. Her removal was not his fault. She never lied to him (or, as some may put it, omitted the truth).

He likes to think that things won’t be uncomfortable between them, after all, are they not professionals when it comes to their jobs? As though it hadn’t been difficult for him,  standing there in his office as the truth dawned upon him. As though his fury was purely professional, and only that. As though his disclosure to 1PP was fully out of responsibility, and nothing else.

He understands that her anger is justified, and the squad probably sees him as the bad guy in this situation. He wants to believe that they (she) will forget (there is nothing to forgive) and it’ll all slip back to the routine of normality.

But no matter how far he tries to run from the truth, there's only a certain distance he can reach before he's too exhausted to continue and it catches up with him again.

She stalks into the precinct, 9am on the dot for their morning meeting, her expression cool as she greets him with a curt nod, and he thinks that maybe he doesn’t really need to be mature, if this is the way it’s going to be. He can play the game and be just as indifferent, just as brusque.  
  
“Barba.” She acknowledges, putting down the case files on the table. There is a twinge of sarcasm to her voice, as though she doesn’t actually feel like she should be granting Barba any civility.

“Benson.” He returns formally, and he didn’t miss it when she flinches, ever so slightly. He never calls her by her last name any more; he hasn’t called her that in years. It’s her eyes that catch him though, the cloud that settles over the brown of her eyes, because while Liv’s words say one thing, her eyes say another, and he knows her well enough to tell that she’s hurt (and offended, too, but hurt, mostly). And he hates the fact that he feels he’s _won_ something by making her react like this.  
  
She plunges straight into work matters. “I think we have enough for you to indict. DNA test came back, it’s positive for the prep’s semen and Carisi pulled off security camera footage of him at her apartment door with a crowbar. She’s willing to testify; this should be an open-shut case.”

“Brilliant, just the type of case I like.” He says briskly, gathering up the needed files and popping them into his briefcase.

She looks at him. He looks at her. The rest of the squad kind of melts away, each citing various tasks they have to take care of. The awkwardness in the room was almost suffocating, and he has an overwhelming desire to just want to make it all _normal_ again.

Impulsively, he wonders if now would be an appropriate time to tell her his feelings, his regrets, _his wants_...but then Chief Dodds sweeps into the precinct with a huge frown, and Barba’s positive that now’s not the time.

* * *

It's different now, she has to admit. Different to work with Barba and try not to react when he's just breathing next to her. She works hard to be nonchalant, become someone entirely different from what she really wants to be, who she really wants to be, how she really wants to act.   
  
Liv thinks her head hurts every time she's short with him, and while she hates every single bit of it, she finds that it's the only thing she can do. Because she still feels anger whenever she recalls him shutting her down the time she tried to talk to him after she had been transferred. She’s still hurt; she’s still upset that he hasn’t talked to her about this.

Is he really just going to ignore all that had happened? Pretend that everything is okay, and for them to slip back into their roles? She wants to say that she is sorry (sorry for not telling him, sorry for not disclosing) but she wants him to say that he is sorry, too (sorry for not trusting her, sorry for disclosing to 1PP).

She misses knowing that no matter how much they fight and argue and bicker and squabble, it’ll all be okay within the next hour, or at most, the next day. She misses the assurance of knowing that he will always have her back.

She misses their friendship (she misses him).

She talks to Ed about this, and he doesn’t understand at all, doesn’t even try to understand. Good riddance, he says. Barba nearly derailed their careers, and the less he has to do with the ADA, the better. And he expects the same of Liv, that she is so disappointed by Barba’s lack of trust, that the fragmented friendship, the broken connections, the stiff formality should not matter the least, if they can still function professionally (and that, they still could).

But there are things she cannot articulate to Ed, not when she’s still a mess about it herself. She finds that she cannot give words to her jumbled thoughts (cannot, will not, she’s not sure).

* * *

The jury hands down a unanimous guilty verdict, and Barba stands up, buttoning his coat, the familiar smug smile of satisfaction on his face. Liv hugs the victim and her parents, and stands by as Barba collects his files, legal pads and his briefcase.

He walks past her, and almost without thinking, she reaches out, and rests her hand on his arm (like the way she usually does, always does). “Good work, Barba.”

He pauses, his gaze flitting down to her fingers, and he raises his eyes to hers. “Thank you.” He says, his tone polite, and unexpectedly, it _stings._ His words are so formal, so rigid (since when does Barba thank her? Or anyone, for that matter), and so unlike _them_.

She watches as he walks off, his mobile phone pressed to his ear as he barks something at the person on the line.

She keeps her eyes on his back, and as though he can feel her watching him, he turns around and catches her eye. He stops walking, but he continues to talk on his phone as he watches her watching him.

Liv doesn’t look away, because looking away implies guilt, and she’s not guilty of anything (she just wants to fix things). She keeps looking, not averting her eyes. Even though the people coming in and out of the courtroom blocks her sight at times, and she doesn’t always have Barba in her line of sight, when the people move away, he is still there, phone in one hand and briefcase in the other.

It’s only when she hears Carisi calling her, and she looks away, acknowledging the younger detective. When she looks towards Barba again, he’s gone, and all that’s left is an empty spot where he had been standing.

* * *

It has been two weeks.

Two weeks of stiff formality and randomly snippy conversations (not like the way it used to be). Two weeks of not getting coffee together first thing in the morning. Two weeks of impersonal phone calls purely centered on work.

He misses her, more than he wants to admit, even to himself. But his pride will not allow him to make amends (he wasn’t wrong, he _wasn’t_ ) and take the first step. And she is as proud as he is, so he doesn't expect her to give in first, not by any means.

So he’s surprised when he walks into his office one morning and she’s there, sitting on his couch.

“Carmen let me in.” She says.

He raises an eyebrow and unbelts his coat, hanging it up. “Benson. What exactly are you doing here? We don’t have any pending cases...so, a new case?” He is careful to keep his tone neutral.

“No, not a new case. Look...” She holds up her hands, in a mini stance of a surrender. “I think we should talk.”

Barba blinks, the directness is unexpected, given they’ve just been darting around each other for the past two weeks. He swallows the sharp retort on his tongue, sits down across from her and nods. “Okay, so talk.”  
  
"This, whatever this is," she pauses, gesturing helplessly between them with her hands, "it needs to stop." 

He stifles a snort of laughter. “ _Whatever_ this is?” He prompts, hands laced under his chin. A flash of something crosses her eyes, but it is gone before he can really read into it.

“You know what I mean. We’re adults. We are _professionals_. I hate that we’re acting like some grade school kids who just had a fight in the playground.”

He leans back, his eyes defiant. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but we’ve been functioning perfectly fine the last two weeks. I play my role the way I am expected to. I always have, and I always will.” No one could ever accuse him of being unprofessional. _No one._  
  
She hesitates, and then plunges on. “Would it help if I say that I’m sorry?”

“That depends. Are you _really_ sorry, or do you think I am the one who should be apologising?”

She nearly growls in frustration. She hates this damn trait of his (of all lawyers), of never giving a direct answer to anything.

(And yes, she wants him to say he is sorry.)

“I am sorry. But I want you to know that I am not intentionally hiding anything from you. Me and Ed...”

He holds up his hand. “Frankly, Lieutenant, I don’t care to know anything about you and Tucker. My issue, my _only_ issue, is that you should have disclosed, the _very_ moment I told you the Monsignor was making allegations. And you didn’t.”

She remembers that time in his office. It was at the tip of her tongue to stop him from talking, to tell him about Tucker, but she didn’t. She didn’t know how to tell him, how to give a name to this _thing_ with Tucker.

He leans forward, his shoulders drooping slightly, and he sighs. “For what it’s worth...I didn’t expect them to remove you with immediate effect. But you have to understand, I have my duty.”

“You should’ve trusted me.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“Can we both admit we fucked up in our own ways, and move on from here?” She asks bluntly.

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. He is tired, and he wants the normality as much as she does. “We can try.”

She supposes that that’s good enough.  
  
She stretches her hand towards him. “Truce?”

He takes her hand, fingers closing over her palm, and gives her hand a brief shake. “Truce.”

His hand tightens ever so slightly when she draws her hand back, and he sees the teeniest bit of _something_ in her eyes.

He’s not sure what to think or feel.

* * *

The tension dissipates – not completely, but enough. They fall back into their roles, and surely that’s a good thing.

They work with ruthless efficiency; there are victims to seek justice for, there are criminals to put away, and it’s a constant cycle, and they keep working at it.

They get the occasional morning coffee; although not as often as they’d used to in the past.

They resume their bickering, although it’s no longer a daily occurrence like it was in the past.

They don’t have dinner together anymore, but that’s okay (it’s not really okay, but they both pretend it is).

They don’t go back to their late nights, poring over case files and arguing over points of the cases. The bottles of scotch in her office and her apartment are untouched, and the bottles of cabernet in his office and his apartment remain unopened.

But he calls her Liv again.

This is their new normal.

(Barba kind of hates it)

(Liv does, too)

* * *

It has been a tough case. He knows it, she knows it, they all know it, and the outcome is hardly unexpected.

Calhoun was relentless and the stepfather, with his expensive lawyers, his money, his power, his influence, just _looming_ over the courtroom in an unspoken threat; the child couldn’t take it, her mother couldn’t take it, and they both fell apart.

Barba clenches his fist as the jury deems the monster not guilty, and he has to look away as the mother’s face crumples with despair. Calhoun sashays over, a smug smile on her face.

“Tough luck, Counselor.”

He snaps the locks on his briefcase and meets her gaze squarely. “Fuck off, Rita.”

He doesn’t even care that for the first time ever, he’s probably broken his own code of professionalism.

* * *

Carmen tells her that he has gone home, and Liv finds herself standing in front of his apartment. She isn’t entirely sure what she’s doing here (especially in the context of their new normal) but she saw how he was in court, and she feels that maybe he shouldn’t be alone.

Resolutely, she presses the bell to his unit and waits, and he buzzes her up almost immediately.

He opens the door, and she finds him the way she expects to, suit jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, suspenders off, and cradling a glass of scotch (probably his second or third glass by now)

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice tired, as he slumps down on his couch.

She sits down beside him, fingers twisting together. “You tried.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, downing all of his scotch and pouring a new glass.

“We can’t save everyone. We can try, but realistically, we can’t. You know that.”

“I should have never taken it to trial.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

He barks out a laugh. “Was it?”

“You know it was.”

“I should care less about doing the right thing.” He says, twirling his scotch glass. “I never used to want to do the right thing. I just want to win.”

He lifts his eyes to hers, the corner of his mouth lifting in a wry smile. “It’s all your fault.”

She brushes her hair out of her face, not quite knowing what to say to that.

“This is all so fucked up.” He mutters.

“Barba...” She hesitates, and reaches out and pats his hand, lightly. “Stop the scotch, and go to bed and lie down. You need some rest.”

He grabs her hand just as she is about to pull back. “Everything is so fucked up, Liv. It’s all...” he pauses, trying to find the words. “...I just can’t get used to this. All of this. Losing. You. Us.”

“Barba.” She says gently. “You’re drunk.”

“Don’t use that line on me,” he says. “You know exactly what I mean.”

And before she could react, his mouth is on hers, hot and aggressive.

Taken aback, she barely knows how to react, but a small part of her, if she can bear to be honest with herself, knows that this is eventually bound to happen.

Him and her, and all that has been building up, escalating with the tension of the past month, their unspoken feelings of everything that had transpired.

So she kisses him back, her lips sliding over his as her fingers grip his forearms, feeling the tension of his muscles under his shirt. She lets him in when he demands entry, letting their tongues battle and dominate, neither of them willing to give up the control. It’s heated, it’s heady, and it’s passionate, and it’s nothing like they had ever felt before.

Barba shifts, never breaking their kiss, as he drags her onto his lap, and she straddles him, her lips nipping at his, her hands in his hair, as his fingers dig into her hips. He then lifts his mouth from hers and trails his lips down to her neck, finding a sensitive spot and sucking it gently, hearing her gasp, the raw sound radiating heat throughout his body.

“Liv.” He whispers, almost in reverence, and he kisses her again, harder, catching her bottom lip between his teeth, and she presses herself against him, her hands at his neck, his face, his hair.

This is a really bad idea, she tells herself, a really, really bad idea, and she feels like she should stop this, and tell him they shouldn’t do this. But somehow, she doesn’t stop it, because she wants this, she wants him, everything else be damned.

She deftly loosens and unties his tie, tossing it aside as he runs his hand up the bare skin of her back under her shirt. She unbuttons his shirt, her nails raking down his chest, and she is surprised at how well-defined he is, all sculpted and strong. She kisses his neck, trailing kisses down his chest as he moans.

He tugs her up, crushing his lips against hers as he rids her of her button down blouse. Her hands go straight to the front of his pants as he unsnaps her bra. He caresses her breast, and rolls her nipple until it’s pebble hard, and he swallows her moans of pleasure into his mouth. She arches into him, craving his touch, wanting his hands everywhere.

Her hand brushes against his straining arousal, and she reaches in, and grips him skilfully, her fingers stroking him, running over his length and he feels himself harden. He grabs the waistband of her slacks, and she helps him with it, stripping them down along with her underwear, and she rids him of his pants as well, and then she’s pushing him back onto the couch, straddling him, naked.

She’s beautiful, her hair a wild tangle, her brown eyes dilated with pleasure. He touches her scars, and she flinches, but then he kisses them. He brushes his lips over the puckered skin gently, over each and every one of them, up to her breasts, and then he licks her nipples, and sucks them, and she gasps in ecstasy.

She rubs her core against his erection, and he’s so painfully hard, and he thinks he might explode if he doesn’t have her soon. But he needs to ask, so he does. He pulls back from her breasts, and then he cradles her face in his hands, his eyes serious.

“Should we stop?”

She shakes her head, and kisses him. “No.” She breathes against his lips, her tongue entwining with his.  _No_.

He presses two fingers into her warmth, manipulating her, and then he’s inside her, and she rocks her hips, adjusting to his length, and he thrusts into her. She grips his thighs with her knees, her lips still fused to his as he thrusts into her again, and again, her fingernails digging into the skin of his back, leaving marks.

They move and grind against each other, finding and building their rhythm, until they are moving as one. He grunts her name, whispers it against her lips, and she breathes his, gasping, moaning and they both reach their peak, coming together, and then collapsing together in exertion.

They do not speak for a few long minutes, her lying on top of him, fingers stroking the curve of his hip, his hands in her hair, both sweaty and sticky and breathless. He shifts first, tracing the outline of her lip with one finger, looking at her intently.

“Liv...” he begins, and he wants to tell her, he wants to be honest, because he doesn’t want to feel fucked up anymore.

Her phone rings.

Their reverie is shattered, as Liv’s phone shrills away, demanding to be answered. She wants to ignore it, but given the nature of her job, she couldn’t and she knows it. She reaches into the pile of their discarded clothes, and pulls out her phone.

The name “Ed” flashes repeatedly on the screen.

And suddenly, the enormity of what they had done hit them both.

She clutches her phone as she looks at him, and he is daring her not to answer it. But then she swipes to answer it, murmuring a quiet hello. He sits up, and reaches for his shirt. He’s trying hard not to listen but he couldn’t help himself.

“Yes...I’m...outside. Yes. Dinner? Mmmm. Okay. Sure. No, everything’s fine. I’m just tired. Okay, bye, see you.”

She ends the call, and turns to him, and he’s already dressed, pants on and shirt halfway buttoned.

“So, you have dinner plans with Tucker?” He said briskly, pouring himself glass of scotch.

Liv looks at him; this situation right now is fucking hilarious, and not in a good way. Did she really just make a date with Tucker, right after she had mind-blowing sex with another man? Is she really sitting there, still naked, while Barba sips scotch like nothing has happened?

She grabs her blouse, her slacks and her underwear, putting everything on in record time. “Yeah, well, look, Barba, I have to...”

He interrupts her, his face twisting fleetingly, and she knows he’s not as blasé as he seems.  “Are you really going to go to him?”

She stops, her thoughts jittering everywhere. Ed is...Ed is her boyfriend. He’s the one that she has committed himself to. And by sleeping with Barba, she has wronged him. By right, she should go to him.

But then, this is Barba standing in front of her, his eyes wide, his expression pained.

“I don’t know.” She mutters, and suddenly she feels so pathetic, so _stupid_ , like some kind of adolescent who doesn’t know what she wants in life, but she really and truly does not know.

“Fuck this, Liv. You do know. You _do_.”

It’s all jumbled in her head, and she needs to get out of there, she needs to stop looking into the green of his eyes, because they are messing up everything she thought she knew.

“I can’t deal with this now...we’ll talk later, okay? Okay? I promise.” She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to keep the promise, and he knows. He knows her better than she thinks, and he hates the fact that she’s running away.

“You know what, Liv? You do whatever you fucking want, and I don’t really care anymore. We’re done. You can see yourself out when you’re ready to leave.”

With that, he picks up his bottle of scotch and leaves the room, and the slamming of his bedroom door has a sound of finality in it.

To him, it’s the sound of his heart breaking.

* * *

Liv sits at the bar, staring at her wineglass, and only seeing Barba’s face reflected on it. The green of his eyes, The way he had kissed her. That expression on his face when he left her (or rather, when she left him).

He is all that she could think of, ever since she left his apartment.

“I’m a fucking idiot.” She whispers to herself.

She knows what she has to do. And she is genuinely sorry that she has to hurt Tucker. He is a good man, despite all that he has put her through, in the past, and he genuinely cares for her.

But him and her, it had never really felt right. Yes, they do all the right things, say all the right words, but she has been holding back all this while. And she knows why, she was just refusing to see it.

She owes it to herself to be honest now. To Tucker, and to Barba.

As she finishes her glass of wine, Tucker slides into the seat beside her and pecks her on the lips. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s fine...” Facing him squarely, she takes his hand in hers. “Ed, I have to tell you something.”

* * *

Liv finds herself standing in front of his apartment again, second time in the day. She tries to think of what she wants to say to him, and she couldn’t come up with anything.

Words seem so meaningless now, she doesn’t know what she can say to start repairing their...whatever is it they got right now.

She takes a deep breath, and starts punching in his apartment number, when the front door of his building bangs open, and he is standing in front of her.

He looks like hell, his hair is tousled, his eyes are tired and there’s stubble darkening his cheeks. He’s still impeccably dressed though, in a black turtleneck and jeans, and a tan leather jacket.

He looks surprised to see her, and the surprise then fades away to a strange kind of determination.

She opens her mouth, but he beats her to it.

“I’m going to fight for this.”

Her eyes widens, and he continues talking, his words coming together in a rush. “It’s been hell, Liv, ever since that day when I found out, and then after that...I keep telling myself it’s professional, I’m angry because you were not professional. And that if I feel personal about it, it’s because we’re friends, and nothing more.”

“But it’s not true, I know it’s not true and I just don’t want to admit it. Because it’s easier to _pretend_ , it’s even easier to go through those weeks all awkward and formal, so long as I don’t need to confront my feelings.”

“But I can’t do it anymore, because I _just can’t._ So I’m not giving this up, not until I have fought for it properly, and if in the end, Tucker is who you choose...”

She kisses him, cutting him off in mid-tirade, locking her arms around his neck as she glides her lips over his, letting him know that she’s here, she’s _right here._

He pulls back after a long moment, and his hands tangle in her hair as he leans forward, meeting her forehead with his.

“I’m not letting you go, Liv.” He whispers. ( _Because I can't. I can't do it._ )

“That’s good. Because I’m not going anywhere.” ( _I'm not leaving you._ )

He doesn’t tell her that he loves her.

She knows, because she’s pretty sure she loves him too.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the original plot goes like this: Barba and Liv are unable to reconcile from the Manhattan Transfer fall out and goes along being all awkward and aloof until all the feelings explode (no sex involved) and it all goes to hell, and Barba ends up requesting for a transfer because he can’t work with Liv anymore. 
> 
> Then I start writing all these scenarios to showcase tension and my brain started running like really really far away, and also my brain thinks Barba and Liv should engage in sexy times. And I can’t really write sexy times but it’s ingrained in my head and I had to do it.
> 
> Then I couldn’t keep them apart and so it ends the way it ended. And not to mention I butchered the characters to the point of no return, but I kinda had fun doing so. 
> 
> So much for angsty Barson. Can I at least say I was half way there?


End file.
